


fevered saves and white-tipped waves

by Skyuni123



Series: The Down-Under Christmas Fic Challenge 2018 [2]
Category: 80 Days (Video Game 2014)
Genre: Desert Island, M/M, New Zealand, Shipwrecks, Travel, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 06:30:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16827049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skyuni123/pseuds/Skyuni123
Summary: Passepartout and Fogg find themselves stranded on the Auckland Islands.-This is part of theDown-Under Christmas Fic Challenge!





	fevered saves and white-tipped waves

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the Down-Under Christmas Fic Challenge.
> 
> Prompt was 'beach'.

It was our second sojourn around the world that did it, and perhaps, I should have expected it.

Of course, I am remiss to hide such specifics from you - I suppose I do it in rampant pursue of mystery - of an air of tension - but I shall go on and not leave you wanting.

Myself, Jean Passepartout (though I do, indeed, loathe my first name), and my dear master, Phileas Fogg, were stuck.

Thoroughly stuck.

It had been the miscommunication in Auckland that had done it, I supposed. Maybe even the prevailing summer winds, chased down from the north.

Regardless of the reason, myself, and my dear, put-upon master, had crash-landed our balloon on the Auckland Islands, many thousands of miles to the south-west of where we had been trying to go.

The southernmost tip of South America wouldn’t be within our grasp for quite some time, I feared.

That was, if we managed to get off the island in the end, rather than falling prey to one of the enormous birds that preyed the skies, or sunstroke, or starvation, or any other ailment besides.

My master did not take well to the cool winds of the islands. He was a prevailing sort of course, as others of his class were, but it did not seem to matter when he’d broken some ribs in the crash landing, and had watched our balloon pilot - an enthusiastic entrepreneur called Boris - bleed out onto his own lap.

He seemed to pale and grow wan as the days passed, and I was soon sure that he would die.

“My good man,” He said in an uncharacteristic show of politeness - though I knew it was born of the fever to his forehead, and not of any veritas, “Do fetch me tomorrow’s paper, would you?”

“Of course, master.” I replied, and instead gave him a piece of ripped canvas - torn unsunder from the balloon as it fell - for him to read. There was nothing on it, nothing at all, but it hardly seemed to matter to his fevered mind.

He took it, unseeing eyes seeing impossible things most clearly on the piece of torn fabric. “I see a great metal levithan taking root in Paris.” He declared, “It will rise high above the heavens and we shall climb its tendrils to look down below.”

He was, of course, barking mad.

On the third day, I wrapped him securely in my overcoat, told him to stay put - though I ensured he would by tying a length of rope around the door of the old coastwatcher’s hut we had found ourselves in - and took off down the beach.

I knew the Auckland Islands by name. I knew about the whale hunting and the fishing that took place on its shore from reference within an old book or two - there was nothing to say that it didn’t still continue, elsewhere on the islands.

In truth, I was just holding out hope.

I didn’t expect to find anything.

I hardly expected to come back alive.

Walking away from that coastwatcher’s hut was a struggle. It sent anxious thoughts through me. I had been in the service of my master for many years - to leave him like I had felt almost like failure.

But that was not the French way. Though tears streamed down my cheeks and I could hardly see the beach through the haze, I walked.

Dead, wilted flowers crunched under my feet, a ruined remnant of summers yet to come. I knew the place was inhabited, could feel it in my bones, but I couldn’t see any sign.

I walked, and I walked, and sooner or later, I was found.

I could not describe those who found me. Perhaps they were whalers, perhaps not, but regardless of their origin or the language they spoke, I knew they meant me no harm.

Thick, salty broth was pressed upon me. I drank it all, felt it running through my body, right down to my toes. I felt warm for the first time in four days.

We spoke of Fogg, and then suddenly, as though in a dream, Fogg was beside me.

I wondered if I was fevered as well. It was as though I had caught my master’s malady - though I had no idea as to how. But I was tired, so tired, and I needed to sleep.

Whether I laid my head down at the dinner table or not that night, I cannot recall, but I know as much as this. As I drifted off to sleep, I felt cool, manicured fingers running through my hair, and I knew that there was only one person in the world to whom they belonged.

Upon awaking, I discovered we were in a boat, rocking gently across the open waves. There was land in sight. My master, however oddly, was clothed in a Panama hat. It did not suit him.

The boat’s captain, who wore a jaunty overcoat and several gold medallions, laughed heartily as he toiled with the tiller. “I believe the man’s fever’s broke!” He chortled, though I couldn’t quite figure out what was the source of the hilarity.

“Quite.” Fogg looked at me over the edge of his newspaper. “You are well, Passepartout?”

“Yes.” I replied, though I had no idea where we were, or where we had come from, or how we’d taken leave of the Auckland Islands.

In truth, maybe it was best that I didn’t think about it too hard.

“Where are we going?”

“Santiago.” My master said, and raised his newspaper up again.

Despite everything that I believed had transpired - real or not - I felt rather elated at the thought.

**Author's Note:**

> hit me up on [ tumblr ](http://eph-em-era.tumblr.com)


End file.
